


Keep The Pretty Ones Alive

by chaoticaverage



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Capture, Escape, Eventual Smut, F/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Romance, Slavery, Slow Burn, slavers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:54:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticaverage/pseuds/chaoticaverage
Summary: “Try and keep the pretty ones alive!”The sneer of the slaver echoed through the Darktown hallway. Hawke’s eyes narrowed as she slammed her staff into the ground, shooting a fire ball into the middle of the crowd. While the battle begun, raging almost too quickly, time seemed to slow for Fenris. His mind was not behind the wide swings of his great sword as he heard the slaver’s cry in his mind over and over again. He knew with precise clarity the stakes of this otherwise meaningless encounter: if they lost, they would be taken. For him, it would be merely a setback on a journey towards freedom he had been on for as long as he could remember, but his stomach felt as if it had turned to stone as the image of Hawke in chains overtook his mind
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, fenris/
Kudos: 15





	1. Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> ***This fic is an AU where Fenris and Hawke are captured by slavers some time in between Acts 2 and 3. Content warning for discussions of slavery.

“Try and keep the pretty ones alive!”

The sneer of the slaver echoed through the Darktown hallway. Hawke’s eyes narrowed as she slammed her staff into the ground, shooting a fire ball into the middle of the crowd. While the battle begun, raging almost too quickly, time seemed to slow for Fenris. His mind was not behind the wide swings of his great sword as he heard the slaver’s cry in his mind over and over again. He knew with precise clarity the stakes of this otherwise meaningless encounter: if they lost, they would be taken. For him, it would be merely a setback on a journey towards freedom he had been on for as long as he could remember, but his stomach felt as if it had turned to stone as the image of Hawke in chains overtook his mind. 

He was jerked out of his nightmare as it bled into reality, hearing an all too familiar pained groan spill from Hawke’s mouth. He turned sharply on his heels to see her doubled over, knocked to her knees, clutching her stomach, and a slaver grunt pulling back his fist with a knife raised above in the other hand, pommel side down. Hawke reached forward and with a guttural yell pulled down magical force on her enemy’s head. She smirked as she started to get back to her feet. She turned to face him, and her smirk widened to a grin as if to say, “not today.” She leapt to her feet and charged into range of the next hoard of mercenaries, letting out a cone of ice into them. 

Fenris smiled for a moment, before he felt a sharp pain in his back. He called out involuntarily, more out of surprise then pain, as he spun around to see an assassin pulling back. Fenris glowered, the lyrium markings beginning to glow, and plunged his hand into the slaver’s chest. His immediate surroundings cleared, he turned to assist Hawke. It wasn’t a common occurrence for them to be taking on such a mob on their own, but as happens in Kirkwall, a quick errand turned into a battle to the death. Fenris leapt into the air and plunged his sword through the spine of a soldier charging into Hawke’s flank. She smiled at him and winked as he quickly reached out and brushed his fingertips along her wrist, a small habit they had developed while fighting. Although they were constantly exchanging smiles and sarcastic comments while fighting, they had been through too many close calls to take it for granted. Small touches spoke silently: “I am here, I have your back.” 

But this time, the gesture was not enough. In what felt like the longest second of either of their lives, Fenris watched Hawke’s expression darken, her eyes widen, as he felt a heavy impact in the back of his head. His vision blurred and he felt blood trickle down the side of his face. He began to call out to her as he saw a rogue appear from the shadows, two blades bearing down into her back. He saw the sparks of magic burn at the top of her staff and he was not afraid. How many times had one last spell helped them? One last burst of flame or ice. Sure, he’d probably get knocked out in the process, but what did it matter? His confidence quickly dissipated as he felt the familiar warmth of a healing spell spread across his skin. 

“NO!” he screamed as his vision cleared in time to watch her crumple to the ground. He remembered too late that there must have been a body attached to his now fading head wound. As he raised his sword to strike rogue, another crack resounded through his skull, and everything went dark.

\-----

Hawke groaned as she slowly came to consciousness. First, she remembered getting stabbed in the back, as the pain burned and throbbed. Then, she saw the soldier they both missed, appear behind Fenris and hit him in the head. Fenris was strong, but it had been a long fight and they hadn’t brought their usual stash of potions with them. This was supposed to be a quick trip to the clinic and back. No trouble, they had promised each other before setting out. Hawke grimaced. She knew better than to travel into Darktown without a full group, but she had selfishly grown attached to the prospect of a day alone with Fenris, a luxury rarely acquired in their current circumstances. 

She had expected to wake on the cold ground of the hallway where they’d been set upon by slavers, as she had so many times before. She’d see Fenris scowling down at her, before chastising her for focusing too much on keeping him conscious. Knowing she has about to lose consciousness, she had decided to heal him as much as she could, trusting that he could take care of the stragglers and get her on her feet again. Eventually, he’d soften to her flippant interpretation of the fight, he’d smile at her while shaking his head, and they’d be on their way. 

As her mind cleared, however, she realized she was not on cold ground. She wasn’t laying down. She was sitting up and her ankles were tied. Her hands were pulled behind her and she couldn’t move. She stretched her fingers behind her and felt a hard stone wall. 

Fuck. 

She opened her eyes, and relief washed over her as she saw Fenris across the room from her, leaning against the wall. That feeling was ripped away when her eyes left his face and saw manacles clasped on his wrists and ankles, connected by a heavy chain. His restraints were clearly much more fortified than her own. “Why” was a question she didn’t have time for right now. She pulled herself over to him, scraping her feet against the damp earth beneath. Where are we? When she reached him, she pushed her legs against his side as hard as she could. “Fenris?” 

Fenris winced and opened his eyes, turning his head quickly his immediately violent expression softening abruptly as their eyes met. “Hawke,” he breathed. The final memories of the fight rushed back to him. The daggers plunging into her back, the healing magic twisting around him. He looked at her with pleading sorrow. “Why do you insist on wasting your mana on healing me?”  
Her lips curled into a half smile. “I knew you were going to say that.”  
He shook his head. “Hawke…Sarah…” he said softly. 

Her smile dropped. Fenris almost never called her by her first name, and when he did he was usually angry with her. But there was no anger here, just pain.  
“Where are we?” she asked quietly, knowing the answer but not wanting to admit it to herself.  
Fenris paused and the silence felt ages long until he replied flatly: “the holding caves.”  
Hawke pressed her back against the wall next to Fenris, leaning into his back. His warmth was vaguely comforting, but she was barely in her body at all. She stared off into the distance, her mind doing its best to fly away from the soup of panic she was in that moment. 

Fenris on the other hand was acutely present in his own skin, as though he could feel every individual cell of skin and fabric touching, his reaching out to hers. She had fallen silent at the realization of their current circumstance—they had fallen to the worst possible selection of their enemies: slavers. They were tied and chained in the holding caves, in which they had killed Hadriana almost two years ago now. His throat was rough with the feeling he kept swallowing; his eyes burned with restrained tears. This was not the moment to let her see behind his stony edifice. He had to be strong for her. Only one thought pressed against his head from the inside: she would not survive this. He had to get her out of there, even if he died in the process, or worse, was sent back to Tevinter. He shuddered at the thought. Although Danarius was dead, he knew there were magisters even worse than he that would happily claim what their rival had lost. Yet, this was a fate he would gladly walk into to keep her from the same. They had not discussed their feelings for each other since Fenris walked out on her, something he still couldn’t believe she had forgiven him for. She understood and, though he’d never have asked her to, she was waiting. Wordless promises passed between them with every glance, every light touch, every smile and every eye roll. They knew what they felt for each other as much as they had known the breadth of the chasm between them—a chasm that now felt as narrow as the as the space of thin fabric which separated them from each other in this moment. 

He held back a grim chuckle as he inexplicably remembered Anders’ curious statement all those years ago: “you don’t have the temperament for a slave.” At the time, Fenris had been almost jealous of Anders for believing that was true. Fenris had learned how to survive, and had placated more than he would ever admit to avoid the wrath of his master. The ringing of Anders’ snide words were replaced by a whirlwind of fleeting memories of Hawke’s—Sarah’s—bright smile, the fire in her eyes as she brought down elemental destruction on her enemies, the number of times her quick trigger should have gotten her killed, or at least arrested by templars. He had seen people like her traded as slaves, and they always ended up either dead or utterly broken. Men like Danarius had horrible ideas about how to “tame” those who came with fire in their eyes. 

Fenris grit his teeth and flexed his hand against the rough metal of his shackles. He couldn’t let that happen to her. He wouldn’t. 

The way he had been chained made it difficult to turn around. As he worked to twist his body to get a look at Hawke’s face, the chains scraped against his flesh. He grimaced, but realized he hadn’t gotten a good look at her face since they woke up. When he had turned enough to look, he raised his eyes hesitantly from the floor and winced as his eyes registered the state of her battered body. He could see the faint traces of bandages under her shirt, mostly through the blood stained holes that remained from the dagger’s entry. He sighed—at least she wasn’t bleeding out or dying of infection, he hoped. He raised his gaze to her face. The side of it was caked in blood, her deep red hair sticking to her face, almost melding with the caked crimson. He itched to reach out and touch her, to wipe the mess from her face, but his hands were chained down in front of him. He could not hold in a slight whimper of resistance, pain, and need. 

The noise from Fenris’ lips startled Hawke out of her haze. She looked up and met his eyes, taken aback by the tangle of emotion she saw there. She knew Fenris felt more than he often let on, but she also knew that he worked tirelessly to hide that. It was part of why their relationship was in a strange limbo. The curtains had fallen for the moment, and Sarah Hawke was met with a well of sorrow, range, and compassion, that shook her to the core and brought her crashing down to earth. Pressing herself into his side, she started to cry. There were no jokes to be had today, no sarcastic comments, no fake bright side, she was broken and bleeding and terrified in a way she had never been before. Despite herself, her sobs turned into disturbed laughter. If the city could see their “champion” now—feller of the mighty Arishok, chained in a slaver’s cavern, never to be seen again. What would people think? She thought of Carver, whom she had finally began having a good relationship with. He would be alone now. Well, he’d be with Gamlen, but that didn’t count for much. She knew him. He would dive into the world of the Grey Wardens and lose himself to duty. Perhaps he would be happy in the end. He would finally be out of your shadow. She shook the thought away. Her mind drifted to Anders, for whom she would always care deeply. She knew he still had feelings for her. She had briefly entertained the idea of falling for him, but quickly realized just how far a plummet that would be, and stepped back from the precipice. He never had. She saw the way he looked at her still, how his usual disdain for Fenris turned to a violent jealousy. If she came home without Fenris somehow, he would probably be happy. He had almost said as much the day they killed Danarius. She feared him as day after day he became less himself and more an avatar of Vengeance. Still, she felt sorry for the impact her disappearance would have. She was keenly aware that she was perhaps the only grounding influence in his life, the only tether keeping him from vanishing entirely. She couldn’t fathom the destruction that might occur unleashed. She kept cycling. Merrill. Isabella. Aveline. Sebastian. Varric. Oh Varric. She started to cry again. At least his story will have a dramatic conclusion. Hero vanishes into the aether, never to be heard from again. She turned her face and buried her face into the dirty tunic they had thrown on Fenris. She pressed in deeper, as if she was trying to crawl into his skin, away from this place, away from the reality that was coming more and more into view. 

Fenris yearned to wrap his arms around Hawke as she cried, and laughed, and cried again. His resolve to keep his own tears within grew stronger as she pressed herself into his side, and he pulled a sheet of rage over his pain. He thought of all the ways he would kill the wretched slavers that kept them here. I just have to get out of these damned chains. He inhaled sharply and began to focus on his lyrium markings. He hated calling on them. They had served him well, but every time he woke the pulsing, burning light of them, he felt sick, like he was somehow paying homage to his dead master. Not to mention, the lyrium itself was not without effect. The feeling of it seeping into his pores was…unnatural. He glanced down at the veil of red hair that hid below his arm. He regretfully nudged her up, whispering: “you need to move.” She was confused at first, but seeing the markings brighten she understood, and pulled herself back to the opposite corner of the room where she had first awoken. Fenris inhaled, focusing on a single thought: escape. 

Suddenly, a flash of blue light filled the room, followed by the clang of metal on stone. When the light faded, Fenris was at his feet, rubbing the grooves the manacles had left on his wrists. He immediately ran to Sarah’s side, crouching down and pressing a kiss to her forehead as he deftly undid her own bindings. As soon as her hands were free, ankles still bound, she leapt to her knees and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer and closer until she was almost crushing him. He was shocked at first—they hadn’t touched this much since their one shared night together—but got over it just as quickly, and returned the embrace. He nuzzled his face into her hair, running his hands down the to the small of her back and back up to her shoulders. He needed to touch her, to feel that she was there, to take refuge in her and offer her sanctuary. They could have stayed that way together, forgetting their surroundings, taking in the release of a year’s worth of pent up feelings and restrained gestures. Hawke was the first to pull away, bringing her hands to the sides of his face, looking him straight in the eyes. Her expression had switched in an instant to the steeled, determined gaze Fenris was accustomed to, her battle-mask, as she flippantly referred to it once. 

“We’re getting out of here.”


	2. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Hawke begin to make their escape and reminisce on the path that led them there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter two here, but I wanted to get something out!

The blast of blue lyrium light was not quiet. They had very little time. Hawke reached through the bars and applied a localized flame to the lock, heating the metal until brittle. She smirked, imagining how this would play out if Anders was with them, if this was a normal mission.

 _“Look how easy it would be for all mages to escape the circle. The templars control is the only thing keeping us safe.”_  
 _“You do realize that most of the damage was done by you, decidedly un mage-like?”_  
 _“Yet these markings were forced on me by a mage, yet another example of their malice."_  
Hawke would shake her head and cross her arms, waiting for him to remember she was there. He’d blush and stammer slightly. “ _Of course, I don’t mean you. Most aren’t like you. You’re different,”_ and he’d shoot a look at Anders, wordlessly finishing: _M_ _ost are like him.”_ She’d given up on trying to mediate their petty rivalry, mostly because she knew it had stopped being about mages and templars a long time ago.

Fenris squeezed her shoulder, breaking her out of her brief daydream. “I need you to stay here. Stay with me. Please,” he whispered. Hawke swallowed and nodded.

Fenris was worried. He could see how easily her mind was drifting away from her body, from him. He kept a hand on her in some way—on her shoulder, on her elbow, on the small of her back, guiding her along their path, but mostly, desperately trying to keep her tethered to their world. He recognized this state. Despite her confident performance in the cell, he could tell she did not believe they would make it out. She was resigning herself to captivity…and for Hawke, that meant resigning herself to die.

As they carefully darted around corners and glided along walls, they could almost convince themselves this was just any other adventure, like on the night they first met, slinking through the cellar of Danarius’ mansion. How foolish he had been then. All he could see was the haze of lyrium that seeped out of her pores. That’s what mages looked like to him—a side-effect of the markings. They stunk of it, it burned his nostrils and the corners of his eyes. He saw only the magisters. “I know what you are,” he had practically spat at her feet. She hadn’t looked at him with resentment as so many had before, however. She looked at him with pity. He would learn that she was painfully aware of the dangers magic posed, and he would see quickly the deep sympathy she held for those who did not trust mages. She had been careful with him, gentle, not out of fear, but out of understanding. From the start, even when there was nothing between them, she had somehow known that he required patience. A patience he was taking advantage of now. He had been wracked with guilt and had lashed out at her more times than he wanted to admit, angry that she was being so patient, that she waited, that she loved him. They had never said the words, but they didn’t need to. They knew. And it made it worse. Every moment with her carried with it an echo: I don’t deserve you. It was a refrain Sarah Hawke refused to listen to. Fenris did a good enough job most days convincing himself that he truly did want her to move on, love someone who could give it back to her boundlessly, yet he also selfishly did not push her away as forcefully as he could. He could hurt her if he wanted to, make her hate him, run away. It would be better for them both. Look what he had brought upon her now? But he didn’t. His true cowardice, he thought to himself, was not walking away from her that night, but that in this moment he was squeezing her hand, following her as close as ever.

“Wait,” Hawke whispered sharply, putting her free hand out in front of Fenris. He stumbled slightly into her shoulder, bracing himself by gripping the sides of her arms. She tensed for a moment, until relaxing into his touch and returning to the task at hand. She jerked her head in the direction of the hallway they had been about to turn into. Fenris listened carefully and heard what she must have been reacting to—a chorus of soft murmurs, no doubt a group of guards passing time. Hawke scanned the area for possible routes, closed her eyes, and sighed before turning to meet Fenris’ worried gaze. “They probably have our stuff,” she said quietly. _We have to fight_ , she said with her eyes. Fenris pressed his lips into a tight line and nodded solemnly. Here, the real challenge began.


	3. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Hawke fight their way to the cave entrance.

Hawke and Fenris stood quietly on either sides of the door, behind which they could hear guards chatting away. They sounded almost innocent, just men doing their jobs, if you didn’t know they were slavers, Hawke thought to herself. They had crafted a brief, desperate plan. Hawke would burst through the door immediately shooting a cone of ice into the room. Fenris would use the ensuing chaos to phase through the cluster of slavers, hopefully making quick work of finishing them off. They’d grab whatever weapons and armor was stashed and easily accessible, and they’d make a break for it. Leaving the bulk of the slavers unscathed did not sit well with Fenris, but even he knew that trying to butcher the entire cavalry as they made their escape would end in their deaths. Hawke promised they would return with the others to finish the job.

They held each other’s gaze and Hawke nodded before kicking the door open and freezing the unsuspecting guards. While Fenris phased through the guards staggering back to their feet, Hawke scanned the room for their weapons. Leaning against a weapon stand in the corner where Fenris’ greatsword and Hawke’s staff. Hawke was grateful in that moment that she had been carrying her father’s staff, which she had often described as ostentatious, but their captors probably assumed they could get good money for the gold plated staff with the outstretched form of Andraste crowning the top.

“Let’s go!” Hawke called out, tossing Lethendralis towards Fenris. She swung her staff wide, hitting the last standing guard in the head and knocking him to his back. Hawke grabbed Fenris hand and started running. The layout of this cave was similar enough to the holding caves in which they had killed Hadriana that she felt fairly confident she could leave them out. What she didn’t anticipate, however, was that they had alerted the guard with enough lead time that they could intercept them at the exit.

Fenris felt as if his breath turned to ice in his throat as they spun around the corner into the final hallway, only to see upwards of fifteen guards standing firmly between them and the cave entrance. He squeezed Hawke’s hand and pulled them back around the corner. He needed to think. They had faced, and defeated, worse odds. Hell, thirty of these men didn’t pose as big a threat as the Arishok, and Hawke had defeated him alone. Fenris’ breath hitched at the memory of Hawke’s limp body hoisted above the Arishok’s head, skewered on his massive blade.

 _“You almost died_ ,” Fenris remembered himself saying, barely audible through the tears he had trapped in his throat. “ _If that…mage…hadn’t been practiced at hiding his magic…”_ Fenris had begrudgingly accepted civility with Anders after he had managed to sneak a healing spell, giving Hawke enough…life…to deal her final blows. Now, they had only themselves, and Fenris could tell that Hawke had not recuperated enough mana to pull them through this. Under different, less dire, circumstances, someone like Varric would be teasing him, prodding him towards admitting that Anders was useful. Fenris found himself actually _wanting_ to see the mage again, to thank him for saving Hawke’s so many times, in ways he himself could never.

Fenris swallowed and turned towards Hawke, grabbing her face in his hands. “Listen to me. I’ve never…We don’t have time to discuss this. The markings, they’re…active. Use them. Use me. Save yourself. Please.”

Fenris watched confusion pass to horror across Hawke’s face, pained knowing filling her light blue eyes. She started to shake her head. Fenris pushed a lock of deep red hair out of her eyes, pulling a track of sweat through the blood and grime that had collected on her face. “We… _you_ …need to get out of here. Do what you have to do.” He hoped Hawke had listened. She said nothing, but threw barriers up around both of them and stepped out, releasing Fenris’ hand. A hoarse battle cry escaped from her lips as she threw a fireball into the mass of soldiers, covering as much of them as she could. Fenris charged, blade in hand, cutting down guard after guard. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Smoke filled the field as Hawke called a fire storm down on the crowd. Fenris’ furrowed his brow. He knew the trace and energy of Hawke’s magic. These were desperate spells. She was pushing herself to her limits trying to do as much damage as she could, likely to avoid a need for lyrium that would driver her to draw energy from his markings. 

As she swung her staff, bursts of energy colliding with burning bodies, he saw the magic start to flicker and fade. She was running out of energy. “HAWKE. DO IT.” He called. She was being stubborn. She didn’t want to hurt him, but couldn’t she see, that some pain for him was better than her, or both of them, dying? Soldiers who had fallen to the ground from the impacts of her storm were starting to get up, and press into her space. The barrier she had called faltered, unable to be maintained. Fenris was starting to panic. He swung his sword through the small group of guards around him and started to run towards Hawke. They had identified her as a greater threat. They were swarming him, and she had drifted to far. Could she even draw on him from that distance? He suddenly regretted never discussing this with her before, never testing it out. Danarius had always used touch to draw power from his skin, but his touches had also been predatory and possessive—who knows if they were necessary. He had been afraid to re-open that connection, even with someone he trusted as deeply as Hawke. Now, his fear might kill them both.

Fenris eyes widened and he almost laughed as his frantic thoughts were met by a rain of arrows bursting through the smokey fog above him.

“Hawke! Broody!” he heard Varric’s voice echo through the mouth of the cavern.

“Varric!” he heard Hawke respond.

Fenris watched a green mist surround Hawke—Anders’ healing magic. Good, Fenris thought to himself, though he’d never admit it. The men who loved Hawke most, and valued Fenris only out of necessity, were here. She would be their priority. Renewed hope pushed Fenris forward, drawing speed from his markings, and cutting through a row of men between himself and Hawke like a scythe to a crop of wheat. Hawke was swinging her staff like a martial weapon, using the likeness of Andraste as a blunt instrument in a way that was almost comical. As he reached her, he grabbed her wrist hard. “Hawke. Please. Do it now,” he hissed, as more guards came running into their hallway from the depths of the caves. _Reinforcements_. Fenris thought. “We just need to get to Varric and Anders. That’s not a lot of power. I’ll be okay.” He paused. “It won’t hurt.” A lie, but a lie that might save Hawke’s life. She held his gaze for a moment, then clamped her eyes shut and started to pull. His markings vibrated at the touch of her magic, the lyrium burning as if someone were skinning him alive, taking layers of skin off one by one. He gritted his teeth, trying to hide the agony he was in. He did not hide it very well, as Hawke quickly yanked her hand away. “Fenris!” She threw his name back at him, holding worry and rage all at once. He didn’t care if she was angry at him later, as long as she was alive to yell.

She growled and pulled down a blast of force energy around them, throwing guards to the sides and pushing those behind them back just far enough that they could make a break for it. Once they reached Varric and Anders, they’d have lyrium potions, and she and Anders could work together to make barriers. Fenris grabbed her hand once more and started to run, almost dragging her out of the cave.

And once more, as it had in Darktown when they were first captured, time felt as if it crept to a halt. Fenris heard the impact first, a heavy chain clattering to the ground beneath Hawke’s feat. Then, he heard her scream over the wet sound of a sickle-like blade cleave into her back. Fenris skidded to a halt and spun around and looked in horror as large warrior started pulling the grappling chain back. He gripped her forearm so tightly that his knuckles turned white and he tried to reach around her waste to remove the blade, but he couldn’t without goring her further, as the chain began to pull taught. Hawke met his frantic eyes with a tear-filled gaze. “I’m sorry,” she whispered hoarsely. Before he could respond, he felt a deep tear into his markings and a sudden torrent of force energy slamming into the ground between them. Fenris flew back, screaming Hawke’s name as her hands slipped from his grasp. The last thing he saw as his vision turned black was Anders dropped to his knees as rocks and debris filled the cave entrance.


End file.
